Haven Shelter
by Parallel Monsoon
Summary: Sam just wants to be a good boy. Taken for the Pits, he's determined to make his way home. But his new friend Dean would rather die in the ring than be a pet, and the mysterious Castiel has plans of his own. It's time for the voiceless to have their say


Adopting a celestial pup hadn't been what Crowley had in mind when they stopped at the market for groceries.

The breeder must have known them for easy marks. He was already nudging forward the cardboard box at his feet and straightening from his slouch, pasting on a smile so cheesy Crowley groaned on reflex.

He tried to hurry Gabriel past, but his partner dug in his heels and craned his neck for a better look. "Oh, Crowley, look at the little one! He's broken."

Crowley let himself be bullied over. He kept his hands in his pockets and a scowl on his face, even though he knew it was a lost cause. Still, he didn't have to **like** it.

There were two of them, curled up together on a ragged old towel. The smaller had its bearded little chin resting on its littermate's back, and yeah, okay, that was sort of cute, if one went for that sort of thing. The whelp's left horn was snapped off near the base, exposing the meat and nerves within.

"The sire rejected 'em both," the breeder told them, "I'd have culled them, but the lines are solid. Crossbreed for strength, you know. Figured they'd be good for a kid's first fighter or something. "

A tug at his arm, and Crowley was pulling out his wallet before Gabriel could start in with the begging. With one horn the pup wouldn't last long in the Pits, and anyway his husband always got his way in the end. Resisting would only see Crowley sleeping on the couch for the night.

"Just the runt," he warned, "We don't have space for both."

Gabriel huffed, but he forgot to argue when the breeder caught the whelp by the scruff and handed it over. He cuddled it close, trying to sooth its squalling. Its littermate scrambled to its feet and threw itself against the walls of its cardboard prison. Even this young its howls had Crowley's ears ringing. If the man hadn't told them they were mutts Crowley would have taken it for a purebred angel, with that voice and its delicate little paws and sharp muzzle.

By contrast Gabriel's new pet had the look of a demon, down to the stubby tail and cloven hooves. It wiggled against his hold, flapping its wings until the down flew.

The breeder reached down to thump the bigger one on the nose. "They'll calm down," he promised, "They scream like devils when you separate 'em, but they'll forget within a week."

The bastard lied.

* * *

><p>They did all the things expected of responsible pet owners. Got the pinions and vocal cords clipped, had the broken horn capped off to prevent infection. Gabriel bought out the pet store of beds and toys, but Crowley drew the line at gold-plated bowls.<p>

"He'd drink out of the toilet if you let him. I should think he'll be fine with stainless steel."

Gabriel named him Sam, after a gawky teen on one of his favorite shows. Watching him toddle about when he just a wee thing was cute enough, but Sam didn't stay small for long. By six months his back was level with Crowley's hip, but he only ever had the most tenuous control over those lanky legs. One minute he'd be prancing about, the next he'd be sprawled out flat, braying silently at the hardwood floor for slipping out from under his hooves yet again.

Still, Crowley had to admit Sam was handsome enough, for a mutt. His gray coat darkened with age to a midnight hue, and his white wings helped to break up the black. The feathers shaded to ruby at the tips, what the Pits called blood dipped, considered a promise of ferocity in the ring.

The very idea was laughable. Even Sam's eyes were gentle, a melting brown that earned him treats even when he'd gotten into the garbage. The one time another celestial bristled at him in the park he'd run back to Gabriel and cowered behind his legs, though he must have outweighed the cranky angel by some fifty pounds.

Crowley did his best to resist Sam's charms, and for a time he succeeded admirably well. He'd never understood why people made such a fuss over pets when the beasts were only good for shedding on the furniture. He took a live and let live approach, only really noticing Sam when he chewed up yet another pair of Italian loafers.

Then came the day his husband almost got his fool self punched in the park.

Sam always came when they called, so they'd let him off leash for a romp while they watched from a cozy little bench in the shade. They both tensed when he wandered over to the fountain, and sure enough Sam misjudged the distance and dunked half his face in the water. He pulled back with a snort and an explosive sneeze, bending awkwardly to rub his muzzle against the ground.

Watching Gabriel bent double with laugher, Crowley was struck by a sudden wave of...well, love. After five years of marriage it still snuck up on him at times, just how damn lucky he was to share his life with this man, infuriating as he could be at times.

So he did what he always did in such moments. He kissed his husband.

Just a peck, a dry touch of lips to cheek, but enough to catch the attention of a passing jogger.

"Fags!"

The man shouted it over his shoulder, and if Gabriel had just kept his mouth shut he would have gone on his way.

"So jealous!" Gabriel called back instead, throwing in a bit of a lisp just for show. And of course the man stopped mid-stride and turned back, and it was only then that Crowley registered just how big he was. His biceps were ropey with muscles, and it would have taken both their thighs to equal one of his.

Given five minutes and a computer, Crowley could have drained the bully's bank account dry, but when it came to fisticuffs his best defense was to take it on the chin. Gabriel's weapon of choice had always been his silver tongue, but it was as likely to get him into trouble as out of it.

Case in point.

And then Sam was there. Bristled up so he looked larger than his already impressive size, his wings mantled over his shoulders. He was growling without sound, showing those long white fangs for the first time in the year they had owned him.

The man had the audacity to shout one last slur before he used those jogger's muscles to hightail it out of the park. Both Crowley and Gabriel were too busy gawking at Sam to even notice, and Crowley felt a spike of honest fear. This wasn't their goofy git of a half-bred demon.

But when the man was out of a sight the celestial shook himself and folded up his wings. And just like that he was Sam again, wriggling his rump at their praise and dancing in circles.

He got tenderloin for dinner that night. Gabriel cooked it, but it was Crowley who sliced it thin against the grain and arranged it just so on a glittering new platter of solid gold.

He still balked at adding a sprig of parsley for garnish. A man had to have **some** standards.

Two weeks later, when they came home to find the front door broken off its hinges and Sam missing, it would have been hard to say which of the two of them was more devastated.

* * *

><p>The cops weren't much help. They came by to take a statement and make their empty promise, but Crowley could tell they weren't holding out much hope of finding the missing stereo system or flat screen, let alone Sam.<p>

They did advise them to give a call to Bobby Singer, leader of the free the celestials movement. Crowley raised a brow at that, but apparently the man consulted with the police on the side, feeding them tips on illegal Pits and hoarders.

The thought that Sam might have already been sold as a fighter made Crowley tense and Gabriel sob. He was dialing before the cops were out the door, babbling out their story before the man on the other end could finish asking their names.

Bobby Singer didn't waste time on sympathy or reassurance. He cut Crowley off halfway through a description of Sam and told him to bring a recent picture down to Haven Shelter in the morning.

Haven was on the outskirts of the city. They smelled it before they saw it, demonic musk blending with the cotton candy perfume of angels.

The shelter was a sprawling complex of fences and sheds. Outside celestials mingled in mixed flocks, with only a few individuals pacing in pens of their own. Crowley tensed when he spotted an angel mouthing at a demon's throat, but the tussle was just play and ended with the pair curled close.

They had to wait at the gate to be buzzed through. The whole of the shelter was surrounded by a electrified fence, and Crowley had a feeling it was to keep people **out** rather than to keep the celestials in. Haven was known for taking in seized fighters, and the flock outside was probably worth a good hundred thousand alone.

The receptionist at the front desk ushered them back to Singer's office. The man himself greeted them with a grunt, holding out his hand and rolling his eyes when Gabriel tried to shake it.

"The picture," he demanded, and Crowley hurried to hand over the folder they'd brought.

"We're worried," Gabriel said, as if that wasn't already abundantly obvious, "He's a rescue, you see. A man was selling him in a parking lot..."

Singer flipped through the print outs, selecting a full body shot of Sam in profile and tossing the rest onto his desk. "If you bought him, it wasn't a rescue. All you did was encourage the breeder to make more and sell 'em cheap."

Gabriel opened his mouth to argue, but Crowley caught his eye and shook his head. "Look, we're willing to pay whatever it takes," he said, "We just want Sam safe and home."

Singer seemed to soften a little at Crowley's plea. "You said you were robbed, so Sam wasn't the only thing taken. They probably weren't after him...he was just a bonus. Your boy is a good looking animal. Best case scenario, they sold him for breeding."

"And worse case?" Crowley asked.

"You already know," Singer said flatly, "He's a big one, but with one horn he'd never take the prize. He'd give the fighters in training a good workout though."

Gabriel sucked in a breath, reaching out for Crowley's hand. Crowley squeezed back, not caring if Singer took offense.

But the man only raised a brow, then shrugged and went on. "I'll put out the word with my contacts, see if anyone knows of any new celestials in the ring matching Sam's description. I can't make any promises, but I'll do what I can."

"What do we owe you?" Gabriel asked, but Singer waved Crowley when he reached into his pocket.

"Money we ain't short on," he said, and Crowley took a step back at the gleam in the man's eyes. "But volunteers...how do you boys feel about getting your hands dirty?"

* * *

><p>The celestials outside turned out to be only half the flock, the ones Singer considered adoptable. Inside were the one that needed rehabilitation, or were deemed too dangerous to put in a home.<p>

"You'll need training to work with those, and that won't happen until you've been here a good year," Singer told them. Crowley opted not to mention that they only planned on volunteering until Sam was found, and that had better happen a hell of a lot sooner than a year. "Don't ever go in these rooms unless I'm with you. New people upset them."

Each celestial had its own roomy pen. Here the angels and demons were separated, kept not just in their own rooms but on opposite sides of the buildings.

"Most of them can be taught not to have a go at each," Singer explained, "But some never get over their Pit training. I can't adopt 'em out if they go into a frenzy if they see another breed walking down the street. The mutts are the worst- they'll go for anything with a fur coat."

Most of the celestials huddled in the back of their pens, watching them with wary eyes. A few crowded to the front, letting Singer scratch their foreheads and rub around their horns. Crowley's stomach turned at the scars and cropped ears.

He'd never thought much about the Pits before. Sure, he'd never seen the sense of betting on a fight, but it seemed almost selfish for activists like Singer to waste time and energy advocating against it when there were humans suffering in the world. But watching a demon with a missing eye and docked wings begging for a pet made it hard to pretend there wasn't cruelty in it.

"Are they all from illegal seizures?," he asked.

He was hoping for some reassurance that the sanctioned Pits weren't as bad, but Singer shook his head. "I've got a contract with two of the bigger rings to send their retired fighters here. I rehab as many as I can, but if they can't be adopted out they stay here. Not their fault they were trained to kill."

He gave the demon one last pat and turned to stare them both down. "If I had my choice, I'd set 'em all free. You may think you're better because you love Sam, but you're still just another shit on the wrong end of the leash to me."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Gabriel squawked. "We take care of Sammy."

Bobby waved a hand, dismissing that easily all the vet visits and trips to the groomer. "Yeah, sure, sure. I saw the scar on his throat in that picture. Is that what you call 'taking care of him?'"

"It's the law. You can't have them singing...they'd tear the city down."

"So you cut their vocal cords and clip their wings. Did you ever stop to think that Sam could be more than a pet? They're a hell of a lot smarter than you think they are."

Crowley had been trying to keep his calm. They needed Singer if they ever wanted to see Sam again, but now he scoffed and rolled his eyes so hard sparks flared at the corners of his vision. "What, you think he wants to be a lawyer? Look, we agreed to scoop poop if it means getting Sam back, but you still think we're bad owners? Sam eats three times a day, he's got more toys than I ever had as a kid...hell, I wouldn't mind coming back as a pet. "

"Everyone says that." Singer turned his back, shaking his head as if he was too disgusted to look them in the face. "And it's a damned lie. You'd give up your freedom, your right to chose for yourself what you eat, where you sleep? Even your right to talk? I ain't buying that."

He took them back to the office and had them sign off on papers releasing Haven of any obligation if they should happen to get mauled on the job.

"I expect you here four times a week," he said, "Maybe that'll open your eyes."

* * *

><p>Sam had just settled down for a nap when the front door flew open and smacked against the wall. He scrambled down from Dark and Light's bed, doing his best to look ashamed at getting caught.<p>

But the voices that drifted out from the living room didn't sound like his men. Sam wrinkled his nose and inhaled, dragging the air across the sense receptor in the roof of his mouth. He didn't much like how these new people smelled **or** tasted. It reminded him too much of the big man in the park, the one who had dared to lift his hand to Light.

And they were in **his** house.

Sam edged his way out of the bedroom, moving slow so his hooves didn't clomp clomp too loud. He peeked around the half wall into the living room...

...and bristled. This close the strangers **stank**, a rank mix of anger and lust. There were two of them, and they were touching Dark and Light's things, stuffing them in crates and arguing over the best way to pry the talking box off the wall.

Still Sam hesitated. They'd moved once before, and it had been a little like this, with strangers and boxes and noise. In the end there had been a long car ride, but their house now had a big backyard with dirt just right for digging.

Maybe they were moving again?

Then one of the men reached down and picked up Bunny. Picked him up and tossed him aside with a laugh, and oh, that was too much. No one messed with Bunny. He was **delicious**.

Sam charged.

He was aiming for the Bunny molester, but he skidded to a stop before he rammed the man, tossing his head and flapping his wings. Hurting a person was **bad**, and Sam didn't want to get a spanking from Dark.

But he could scare them, and he did his best by snapping at the air and rearing up to strike with his hooves. And the men did cower back, cursing like Dark did when Light came home from shopping all loaded down with bags.

One of the men pulled something from his pocket. It was small and flat, and Sam didn't understand why he was pointing it at him like that.

The thing made a noise. Something sparked from the end of it and hit Sam in the chest. And oh, it hurt, it hurt like **red**, worse than any spanking. His muscles were fighting against each other, and he fell hard, smacking his chin against the floor.

He didn't remember going to sleep, but suddenly he was waking up in a little box. There wasn't room enough to stand or spread his wings, and everything was rocking like when Dark and Light took him out in the car.

But this wasn't fun like when Dark and Light took him to the park. He hadn't had his Sammy pill for one, and by the time they finally rolled to a stop he'd gotten sick all down his legs. That made the bad men curse at him, but Sam knew it was their own fault. Light never forgot his pill, not once.

They carried his crate inside a building, and it made Sam feel just a little better when they complained about the weight. The front of the box slide up, but there was nowhere to go but into another, bigger box. When Sam hesitated something bit at him through the bars, stinging his rump with a sharp little pain. He scuttled forward to get away from it, and the new crate's door slammed closed behind him.

His new cage smelled like other celestials. The whole building did, and Sam had never been around so many of his people before. Under it all was the tang of fresh blood and an acid hint of fear. Sam whined, feeling it vibrate in his throat even if he couldn't hear it.

The nasty men were still hovered close, talking and laughing together. Sam pricked up his ears and listened hard, but he understood only a few words. _Tomorrow_, _bite_, _fight..._surely they weren't talking about **him**.

Sam was a **good boy**. Dark and Light said so.

When the man left Sam set to grooming the sick of his coat. The taste made him gag, but there was no water to drink. Just thick steel plate on every side, and bars higher up so the people outside could see in. The metal was dented and covered in scratches, and Sam knew he wasn't the first celestial to find himself trapped inside.

The pen didn't leave him much room to maneuver, but Sam backed up as far as he was able and lunged forward with all the strength in his shoulders. The metal gave a little when his horn smashed into it, but the door stayed shut.

Sam did it again. And again, despite the pain growing behind his eyes.

He wanted to go home.


End file.
